


The Messenger

by wolfbird



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Multi, and only posted on tumblr, and the threeway pairing is only there if you squint, but i recently reread it and thought it was good so, even though the fandom is pretty much dead at this point, i guess i'm posting it, nothing is explicit in this, this is a fic i wrote at least two years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 19:35:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11088483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfbird/pseuds/wolfbird
Summary: James Wesley wishes that he was able to save Wilson Fisk, and he hates that he isn't. He also hates that there is exactly one person who is, and most of all, he hates that he needs her, too.





	The Messenger

It’s been a long time since Wesley’s driven a car, but they say it’s one of those skills that never leaves you, and it seems that, in this case at least, they’re right. It’s not that he particularly dislikes driving, or that he’s bad at it – Wesley prides himself on being bad at very few things – it’s simply not his job to drive. It’s his job to be with his employer, to inform him of the ups and downs of the day, to deliver good news triumphantly and bad news frankly. Above all, it’s his job to support Fisk, to protect him.

Usually, that means sitting in the back of the car, glasses off, his leg barely brushing Fisk’s. Not today. Today, it means gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. It means driving as fast as he can down crowded streets, swearing quietly every time someone cuts him off. It means heart hammering, head pounding with worry. He’s never seen Fisk this bad, and, if he’s being honest, he’s afraid that there’s really nothing to be done about it. If he’s honest, he fears that this means he’s failed.

Fortunately, Wesley is seldom honest, and failure is never an option.

He parks the car illegally – he can afford to pay a ticket, and time is of the essence.  It’s all he can do not to shove people aside as he crosses the sidewalk ( _control yourself_ , he thinks) and enters the lobby of a quite impressive apartment building. There are pillars in the corners, ornate but far from gaudy, and the walls are patterned with something that calls to mind art noveau.

Wesley can see why she likes it here, a work of art living in a work of art, but he’s not here for the aesthetic. He’s here for her. He’s done his research; she lives in apartment 500, alone, usually home on Fridays at 7. He can only hope that she hasn’t gone out for dinner, that she hasn’t made plans, that she doesn’t simply decide not to answer the door. All of these are possibilities, all of which Wesley has no answer for. He can only hope that his luck holds, and he isn’t a man to believe in luck.

The elevator on the way up feels cramped; he’s anxious, god, truly anxious, and for the first time in years, he can’t fight it back. He stands with his hands clasped in front of him, his thumb running over the face of his watch, facing the doors, hardly breathing until the elevator stops.

The fifth floor is silent and empty, long, spacious hallways stretching in both directions. There are large windows to let in light, and the view is breathtaking, but none of that matters. He follows the apartment numbers down to 500, then knocks on the sturdy door three times, three solid knocks. He listens for rustling, for some indication that she’s home, but he doesn’t have to listen for long: the door opens almost immediately.

She’s wearing a white dress, form-fitting, beautiful. She’s something to look at, certainly, almost an ethereal creature, but Wesley knows that’s not why Fisk loves her. He loves her for the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the way it cuts past every wall, straight into the heart. Wesley would love her, too, he supposes, if he felt capable of such a thing.

“I was just going out,” she says mildly, collecting herself after her initial surprise. She steps aside, allowing him in.  “I don’t suppose you’re here to join me?”

“No,” Wesley agrees. “I’m afraid I’m not.” He catches her looking at him, sizing him up. He knows how he must look, how he’s very carefully built himself to look: intimidating, distant, precise. She doesn’t trust him, not quite, although she trusts Fisk with her life.

“Are you here to kill me?” She asks, just as calmly as before. Her tone is knowing; it’s a joke.

He chuckles. “Ms. Marianna, if we wanted you dead, you would be.” He’s not looking at her, but at the front room of her apartment. It’s artistically sparse, modern, filled with wood and glass furniture; his taste almost exactly.

“Please, call me Vanessa,” she replies smoothly. They’re dancing around each other, two predators feeling each other out, testing the waters. Wesley doesn’t have time for this intricate game, although, were they meeting under any other circumstances, he would have continued with pleasure. He hates that he likes her.

“Vanessa, then,” he says, turning to her, signaling that the playing is done. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be quite like this. It’s…force of habit.” He sits in one of her chairs, surrendering the advantage of height, before taking off his glasses and setting them on a nearby table. Every bone in his body is telling him to stop wasting time, but he has to be careful, he reminds himself. He has to prove to Vanessa that he can be trusted so that she’ll go with him, so that she’ll save Fisk.

She leans against a wall, taking him in, the new softness to his face, the exhaustion in his posture. She raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Is this more what you meant to be like, then? Is this supposed to be “the real Wesley”?”

Wesley laughs, actually laughs. “No, nothing as simple as that, I promise.”

Vanessa laughs, too, a real laugh. “I’m glad you weren’t going to say that,” she says. “Besides, I know what this is.” She gestures to him, looking him directly in the eyes. He startles, just for an instant, and she smiles genuinely, softly. “This is who you are when you’re with Wilson.”

Wesley doesn’t have an answer to that. She holds his gaze for a moment, and her expression turns sad. She looks away from him, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I know why you’re here, too. Wilson’s hurt.” It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Wesley says, something dark and cold and mournful rising in his throat. “You have to understand…there are things that have chased him all his life. They’ve caught up to him now, and he…he needs you.” He knows he’s pleading, but if she’s the only thing that can help Fisk, as he knows she is, he can stand to beg.

Vanessa looks back at him when she hears the rawness in his voice. “I’ll go to him,” she says, with hardly a pause. “Of course I will. But how can I help him where you can’t?”

Wesley smiles ruefully. “If I fully understood the answer to that question, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He stands, unfolding his glasses and putting them back on with practiced movements. Vanessa looks at him again and he feels as though she’s deciding something, making some piece to the puzzle of him fit into place. “Come on,” he says, his tone more urgent now. “The faster we get you to him, the better.” She nods and follows him, taking nothing but herself. After all, she is all they need.

He fidgets in the elevator again, doubly so because there’s another person to take up some of the space, however small she is. Vanessa puts a hand on his arm, a quiet reassurance, and he stills, remembering himself. She’s good, very good, and Wesley knows he’s made the right decision.

The car is still parked where he left it, miraculously without ticket. She steps in gracefully on the passenger side, the white of her dress standing out sharply against the black of the car and its seats. She’s a sort of angel, entering their dark world for reasons Wesley wouldn’t understand if he didn’t know how Fisk could pull you in, how easy it was to…he shakes his head, starting the car.

There’s still traffic, a lot of it, and the drive is agonizingly slow. It’s quiet for a long time, but it’s bearable, especially because Vanessa’s presence prevents Wesley from white-knuckling the steering wheel again. The only sounds are the barely perceptible tick of Wesley’s watch, and their breathing. They’re both considering each other, still, always, wondering how they fit into the other’s life. Two people, similar and yet entirely different, connected only by the man they both…

“How far can you carry this?” Vanessa asks, breaking the silence.

Wesley looks over to her; they’re stopped in traffic. “Carry what?”

She looks him in the eye again, unperturbed by the wall of his glasses. “Your love for him. You hold it so tightly…how long before you can’t anymore?”

His face remains impassive, but his hands grip the steering wheel too tightly again. In his peripheral vision, he sees the cars ahead of him move, and he turns to the window, glad for the chance to look away. “I could ask the same of you,” he says simply.

“It’s different,” she replies. Wesley barely inclines his head, curious despite the twisting in his stomach. “I love him the way one loves…for example, a truly wild place. With reverence, yes, but from a distance.” She pauses. “You love him the way one loves their home, the air they breathe.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Wesley says forcefully, his eyes still on the road, his vision blurred, as though he’s taken off his glasses again. His throat is tight, almost too tight to breathe. It’s an effort even to speak, but after his initial outburst, he manages to make his tone civil, if strained. “You’re not doing either of us any good.” He swallows hard, and god, he wants to be anywhere but here, be anyone but himself…but he straightens his back and makes an effort to loosen his hands, to compose himself.

He knows Vanessa sees this, sees the way he closes himself off, and it makes him uncomfortable that she’s seen so much of him in so little time. She can read him so easily; this may be what Fisk needs, but for Wesley, it’s nothing but a liability.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and Wesley can tell that she truly is. In some small way, her honesty settles him. This is what Fisk needs, Wesley knows. He needs this openness, this clarity of emotion…he needs what Wesley can’t provide, and if Vanessa can give that to him, then it’s Wesley’s job to bring her to him without complaint, without resentment, without hesitation, as he does all other things for Fisk.

They arrive at Fisk’s building without further conversation. Wesley helps Vanessa out of the car, a perfect gentleman. In the elevator on the way up, Wesley briefs Vanessa, relaying to her the physicality of Fisk’s anger, assuring her that, despite this, Fisk would never hurt her. She takes this in, watching Wesley with sad eyes, and, just before the door opens into the hallway leading to Fisk’s penthouse, she leans upward and kisses Wesley on the cheek. He blinks once, wondering if she expects him to respond, but she’s already leaving, moving towards Fisk’s door. Wesley follows her as easily as he follows Fisk, catching up to her just before she turns the handle, and they step in together, Wesley the messenger, and Vanessa the good news.


End file.
